


stuck in a dream

by officialvampyr



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Akechi Goro Lives, Akira Kurusu's Savior Complex, Alternate Ending, Angst, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, End of game spoilers, Fix It Fic, Goro-typical self-hatred, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Persona 5 Royal Spoilers, Persona 5 Spoilers, Pining, Platonic Affection, Platonic Cuddling, Pre-Relationship, Rivals to Lovers, Talking about Feelings and Processing Trauma, Vanilla Persona 5, blood mention, in this house we talk about our traumas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24366718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officialvampyr/pseuds/officialvampyr
Summary: Vanilla P5 Spoilers.After the events in the boiler room, Goro finds himself in the Velvet Room.--Here are the things Goro Akechi knows:The first is that he is in some form of the Metaverse. It doesn’t take a genius to put together that normal prison cells are not lined with plush blue velvet, or that normal prison cells have guards that patrol at regular intervals. Even in his state of mind, he can feel the cognition slipping around him like oil on water. He can feel the shudder of his persona, just out of reach, but he can also feel that Loki suffers the same way he does. It feels like a dead limb, unresponsive and cold.The second is that he is dying.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 3
Kudos: 166
Collections: Quality Persona Fics





	1. last goodbye

_If this was meant for me, why does it hurt so much?_   
_And if you're not made for me, why did we fall in love?_

\--

Here are the things Goro Akechi knows:

The first is that he is in some form of the Metaverse. It doesn’t take a genius to put together that normal prison cells are not lined with plush blue velvet, or that normal prison cells have guards that patrol at regular intervals. Even in his state of mind, he can feel the cognition slipping around him like oil on water. He can feel the shudder of his persona, just out of reach, but he can also feel that Loki suffers the same way he does. It feels like a dead limb, unresponsive and cold.

The second is that he is dying.

There’s a gunshot wound to his stomach, pain flaring through every fiber of his being. His hand clutches over the wound in a feeble attempt to staunch the bleeding. For the moment, the pain is the only thing anchoring him to whatever reality he currently finds himself in. It’s remarkably easy to lose track of time here, where there are no windows to filter in sunlight, where there is no indication of time passing at all. If this _is_ the Metaverse, it is likely that time simply _isn’t_ passing, which would explain why he has not yet succumbed to his wounds. He feels feverish, sluggish, and even concocting predictions seems beyond his mental faculties. Sweat causes his hair to cling to the nape of his neck, every heaving breath he takes causing a new pulse of blood to seep out of his wound and bubble through his fingers. It stains the beige peacoat he wears, pools around him.

Here are the things Goro Akechi does not know:

The first is that it has been over a month since the confrontation in the boiler room of Shido’s palace. He remembers his double pointing a gun at him and shooting, he remembers crumpling to the ground, hearing the dull thud of someone banging on the wall he’d erected. He remembers cursing the Phantom Thieves for not taking quicker advantage of the escape he had given them, and then… he woke up here. The ground beneath him was cold and hard, but he could not gather the energy to move himself onto an equally uncomfortable looking cot, so he remained.

The second is that it is Christmas eve, that the Phantom Thieves have penetrated the depths of Mementos, and that the world has succumbed to ruin. He knows nothing of the god of control, of Yaldaboath, nor the hunger of the masses and their distorted desires.

The third is that the Thieves have been forgotten, and that he is no longer alone within this prison.

When he had first awakened here, he had thought it to be a purgatory. While he knew he was never going to get into heaven with his crimes, he had almost been assured he’d have a special place in hell reserved for him, and this was lackluster in comparison. He could not understand _why_ he was there, either. He was in his normal clothes, his everyday clothes, which meant he was no longer in a palace, but his wounds had remained. This suffering was its own kind of hell. Every breath he takes wracks his bones. He coughs and sputters, sometimes so hard he can taste blood on his tongue.

The only thing he can do is think. When he breaks through the sweat of his fever, when he can focus the fire in his gut away from his wound, he thinks.

_It wasn’t supposed to happen like this._

He had planned out everything from the start; the way people perceived him, the way he dressed and acted, the way he was supposed to be. Everything about him was carefully curated to be likeable and perfect. The charming smiles and the princely personas were molds he could easily fit into. For years, he had been untouchable, solitary. He was achieving his dreams on his own and was doing fine, until… In the back of his mind, he sees the flash of a glinting white mask, the exact hue of scarlet gloves. _Until_ …

Goro Akechi does not have regrets. Regrets are for weaker people who cannot stomach the things they did. He knew what path he carved for himself, and he does not regret the means he took to obtain it. If he were being honest with himself, he knew that Shido was going to dispose of him, eventually. Why would he let his pet murderer live? They were destined to race against one another in an attempt to end each other. Still, he did not regret it. He does not regret working with the Phantom Thieves and, perhaps in a moment of self-actualization, Goro knows he does not regret dying for _him_. He knows he would do it, over and over again, but only ever for him. Who else would he entrust his justice to?

Goro Akechi does not have regrets, but he finds himself haunted nonetheless.

A ghost stands before him, a silhouette he would know anywhere.

He’s haloed by the glow of the prison, a gentle blue that softens his shoulders, the messy curls of his hair. He looks angelic in the light, which only aids to his delusion that this isn’t real, that _he_ isn’t real. He stands casually in front of the jail cell, the coats of his tail fluttering, his red gloves half-resting in his pockets. His expression is neutral, save the smirk that seems permanently etched onto his lips. It causes Goro to smile.

“ _Joker_ ,” he coos with all the venom and malice he can muster, but his voice cracks like gravel from disuse. His mouth is dry and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and he coughs against the weight of his own words. “Have you come to mock me?”

He lowers himself so that they’re eye-level and Goro can focus on him more intently. For a moment, they make eye-contact, which causes his breath to stutter and for him to cough again. He covers his mouth with his hand and Akira homes in on the bullet wound. “Do you know where you are?” he asks instead.

Goro laughs. “Purgatory,” he spits, with all the venom he can muster. “Why else would it send me you?”

For a moment, it looks like Akira is about to say something, but then his brows furrow behind his mask. “What am I to you, Crow?” he asks.

“Oh, Joker, shouldn’t you know?” He lifts his gaze again to look at his face. He wishes this had been the last thing he saw. He was his rival, his antithesis. He was his beginning and his end, in quite the literal sense. Their fates had been entwined from the beginning. The mental shutdowns and Akira’s arrival, and then the culmination of it all. He is everything to him—and he is nothing, at the same time.

He doesn’t seem to know, though, and Goro begins to wonder if he truly _is_ a product of his cognition, his guilt, his regrets. He drags his gaze away from him, glancing upwards at Goro’s prison. “This prison is called the Velvet Room. It’s a place that exists between dream and reality. It’s safe, for the most part.”

_For the most part._ He smirks.

“I thought you were dead.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Aren’t I?” It starts to become clearer to him, Akira’s words sinking in. _A place that exists between dream and reality_. His hypothesis was right, then, this is some version of the Metaverse. It’s why his wounds haven’t killed him yet. It’s why time hasn’t seemed to pass. It clicks.

And suddenly he’s angry, a horrific fire burning through him that can only culminate in a manic laugh. The sound bounces off the velvet walls, down the corridors of the prison. He balls his hand into a fist and slams it against the hard concrete of the jail cell. He can’t even feel the pain. “I’m a complete failure, aren’t I?” he chuckles, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. “In the end, I couldn’t even fucking _die_ right.” And god, it _fucking_ aches. The one thing in his life he had done right, the one choice that had mattered, had all been for naught. His gaze shifts, regarding Joker with malice. “I hate you, you know. I hate that you made me care about you.”

Joker remains quiet, still perching on the balls of his feet, and Goro comes to the unfortunate conclusion that he does, in fact, have one regret.

Not meeting Akira Kurusu sooner.

He exhales, body shuddering from the weight of it. He can feel a dampness on his cheeks but refuses to consider the idea that he’s _crying_. His fist slowly unclenches, and he stares at his bloody glove. “Did you finish it?” he asks, and he hates how broken it sounds. It was the one thing he had asked of him, after all, and if that hadn’t even happened, it would all be for naught. His death, his path. He had to cling to it; it felt like it was all he had.

“Yes,” he confirms. “There’s more work to be done, though.”

“Isn’t there always?” Goro muses. “There will always be another tyrant that needs his heart changed.”

“It’s different, this time. Will you come with me?”

_Come with him?_ He can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Joker, did you not hear that I just said I _hated_ you?” He glowers at him. “I killed you, and you want me to come with you?” For the first time in ages, Goro moves. He forces himself to sit up, to crawl towards the bars of the cell. Once again, Joker seems to hone on the wound, concern cracking his nonchalant façade, and oh, Goro wishes that his care was one sided. _Why? Why does Akira care about_ him _?_

“I heard you.” His resolve is like iron, eyes flashing with something akin to danger.

“What would you say if I told you I’d do it again?” he snarls. “That I’d always sacrifice you for my own means?”

Slowly, Akira takes his mask off, which isn’t something Goro thought he would do. “You sacrificed yourself, Akechi. You trusted me. Can’t you do it one more time?”

“And what do you want me to _trust_ , Joker? That you _care_ about me?”

His eyes flash again, and he, too, leans closer to the bars. “ _Yes.”_ As frantic as Goro feels, he cannot help but _revel_ in this break in composure, even if it was just for a moment. After that word, he reels it back in, expression hardening. He surprises him again when he says, sadly, “I wish we had met earlier.” The words kill the passion in him, and suddenly he feels… very tired and heavy. “It’s been a month and every night I still wonder if I could have saved you, if I could have stopped you.”

Goro leans his head forward, resting against the bars. His eyes close. “You shouldn’t care about me. I’m not worth it.”

Once again, Akira’s composure breaks. “You don’t get to decide what you’re worth to me!” With something akin to desperation, he adds: “I need you.” It’s a pathetic thing to say, but out of pity (or perhaps empathy), Goro doesn’t say as much.

Instead, a small smile crosses his lips. “You’re a fool, you know,” he says fondly. “In another life, maybe we could have been friends. You are so… passionate and headstrong. I admire you as much as I despise you. In the short time I’ve known you, you’ve—” He cuts himself off, sighs. “Well, it doesn’t matter now.” But he can feel the resolve in his heart. In the short time since he’s known Joker, he’s upended his plans—he’s changed his heart. He made him _care_.

He can feel his heart flare, and suddenly, blue flames are licking across his body, dancing across his vision as his clothes fade into black and blue armor. His vision obscures from the weight of his mask and he feels stronger, bolder. The bars surrounding his cell also fade in a gush of blue flame, and Joker wastes no time invading his space. His hands are on him in an instant, _Diarama_ on his lips. He can feel the warm pulse of healing magic, but he also knows there’s no need for that. Whatever has just occurred—a reawakening, of sorts?—has cured his wounds. “Akira,” he says, and his name feels like sin on his lips, “you know I can’t go with you.”

“Then wait for me,” he urges. “I’ll come back for you.”

Maybe in another life, in another universe, the two of them would hold hands and walk into the sun. Another Goro Akechi no longer in shadow but haloed by love and light. A Goro Akechi that deserves such kindness. He feels another wave of sadness. That is not his fate, though. As much as Akira pleads, Goro is undeserving of his companionship. No amount of atonement could wash the blood from his hands. His slate will never be clean.

From down the hall, a voice carefully asks, “ _Joker?”_ He recognizes it as one of his teammates, one of the Phantom Thieves. “ _Joker, we have to go.”_

There’s a finality, to this moment.

Akira still has his hands on him. “Wait for me,” he repeats, insistent. “I won’t let this be goodbye.”

“We’ll meet again,” Goro replies, to soothe him.

Their eyes meet for a moment before Joker gives a final nod, accepting his words. A gentle hand sweeps the hair out of Akechi’s eyes, a touch so soft it jars him. Joker smiles at him before he stands, and just like that, Goro is alone again, as he always is.

_It wouldn’t be the first time Goro Akechi lied to his face, but he hoped it would be the last._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lyrics are from Fear of the Water by SYML.  
> i made a goro /shuake playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6qq944AXnjlyJPMgKBmkYg?si=Qd08keo2R9Wb9uA_X9D08w) if you'd like to listen :^)
> 
> Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/mitochondribae) or [Tumblr](https://bvrnish.tumblr.com/)!


	2. first hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Velvet Room is gone, and with it, Goro Akechi.

_That's what you want, but it's not what you're asking for_   
_I said that's what you're asking, but you're gonna get more than you bargained for_   
_I said that's what you had, but you don't have it any more_

\--

It’s remarkably easy to break into Leblanc.

He supposes it’s natural, considering the sky has gone red and it’s raining blood, that there are spires like bones breaking out from the surface of the earth. The Phantom Thieves must be reaching their apex, the cheers of Tokyo ringing throughout every street. He won’t watch, but he’ll listen; he owes them that much, he thinks, but he knows it’s a pathetic attempt at nonchalance. Even if he refuses to look, he can’t deny the way his heart races as the crowd roars. Oh, to be as blind and ignorant as the masses, to ignore the Thieves and all the things that were going wrong in their world. Maybe that’s why he can force himself to look away, to pretend to ignore it—he’s been acquainted with it the whole time.

Sojiro Sakura stands in the backstreets of Yongen-Jaya, gaze affixed to the chaos around him. There’s a woman next to him, also watching, keen and observant, hands resting in the pockets of her white doctor’s coat. Akechi knows the Thieves have many allies, but it’s interesting to see them like this, watching and waiting. They look so… hopeful.

The door to the café is unlocked, and Goro slips inside unnoticed, mindful of the bells that usually alert new guests arriving. He surveys the empty café with a hint of nostalgia, allowing himself to recall the sweet summer evenings spent here with him, drinking coffee and making small talk. He does not linger, though. He tucks his briefcase into one of the booths, leaving it there as a little surprise when Akira comes home, and makes his way up the stairs to his room. He makes himself comfortable on the chair in front of his workbench, gaze directed towards the row of windows. Usually, they filtered in an excellent amount of light, illuminating the room; but with the skies so dark, it plunges the room into a macabre shade, casting long shadows across the floor. Akechi can see his own shadow distort and crawl across the boards, monstrous in its contortion. It feels fitting.

In a flash, it ends.

He never thought this was how he would spend the end of the world—comfortable in his loneliness in an attic—but it feels fitting. Suddenly, the distortions vanish, and the skies open up. It’s late, now, although he wasn’t keeping track of the hours, the sky dark and heavy with clouds. The streets that were once full of blood-red water clear, and everything is suddenly back to normal. Even the populace, he assumes, returns to normal. There are no more cheers. He can hear the rumble of the trains, the roar of traffic. Life resumes. From the little windows, Akechi can see that it’s begun to snow.

It’s Christmas Eve, so Sakura has closed up the shop, sealing him inside. Eventually, however, he can hear the chime as the door opens, hear soft footsteps creep downstairs. It’s eerily quiet. Akechi notes there is no chattering from an enthusiastic cat, and for a moment, he wonders if Sakura has returned for some reason. He knows those footsteps, though; light and precise. He intentionally steps around every squeaky board, as if trying to sneak around. Akechi can hear him pause, imagines him laying eyes on the familiar briefcase in the last booth, can practically hear the cogs in his head begin to turn.

There’s a thud—probably Akira throwing down his own bag—before he charges towards the stairs, no longer caring to remain quiet as he barrels through the café. He takes the stairs two at a time and then—

There he is.

Goro would be lying if he said he didn’t carefully curate his posture to look lazy, elbow resting on Akira’s crafting table, cheek resting in the palm of his hand. He raises a brow at him, taking in his appearance. He’s gone sheet-white, as if he’s seen a ghost, eyes wide and alarmed. Akechi has never seen him so frantic before and part of him thrills at the sight. “Alone on Christmas eve?” Goro quips, rolling his shoulders back so he sits properly. “Not what I expected for the illustrious hero.”

Akira gapes at him like a fish out of water. “You’re—” he balks, trying to find words. Goro waits patiently for him to find them. “You’re here.”

He hums. “So it would seem.” Then, he forces himself to smile, all charming prince and sweetness. “Welcome home.”

Goro Akechi can see the exact moment something in the Phantom Thief breaks, that careful mask of his shattering into… grief? Relief? His face contorts and he rushes forward, taking the detective into his arms and crushing him in a vice grip. Akechi gasps around the embrace, immediately tensing up as he’s lifted from the chair and squished against him, every piece of them pressed together. There’s desperation in his grip and Goro can feel his heart ache for him. Slowly, tentatively, he maneuvers his arms around Akira, squeezing him back. He tilts his forehead into his shoulder, centering himself. _They’re here, they’re alive, they’re together._

It feels like they stand there for an eternity, but he isn’t going to be the one to break the hug. Eventually, Akira’s grip loosens, just slightly, so he can step back and look at Goro. One hand cups his cheek, holding him in place. Goro, in turn, keeps his hands loose on Akira’s hips. He smiles, softer this time, and finds himself at a loss for words. Over the past few hours, when he’d been alone, he’d fantasized about what he would say, but now there was… nothing. Every imaginary conversation faded from his memory. Akira’s cheeks are damp, his glasses smudged and fogged.

Akechi is unfamiliar with tenderness, so it’s on pure instinct that he reaches up a hand and gently swipes away at the tears on his cheek. He marvels at how Akira doesn’t shy away from him—at how he, instead, leans into the touch. “Let’s sit, shall we?” he asks softly, inclining his head to the bed. Both are reluctant to let go of the other, but they manage to retract for just long enough to toe off shoes and shed coats before falling into each other again.

They sit side-by-side on the bed, hips and thighs and shoulders touching, hands held between them. It’s not a romantic gesture, but a means to ground one another in the moment. They always had to hold onto something real when they so often paraded through different cognitions. “Saving the world isn’t all it cracked up to be, hm?” Goro asks softly, and Akira dips his head to rest it against his shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?” He lets his thumb caress Akira’s.

He lets out a shuddering little sigh.

And he tells him.

He starts from the beginning since he didn’t get the chance to before. He tells Goro about everything that’s happened since his death, from the outcome of the election and Shido’s change of heart, to the strange occurrences with Mementos. It’s always been a strange thing, harboring the ability to look into one’s deepest desires, but seeing _everyone’s_ desires was something that shook him to his core. Akira tells him of the people he saw in isolated prison cells, disparaging and hollow, how it’s hard for him to wrap his head around the way they were so content to remain imprisoned. He tells him of the horrors he saw in the depths of Mementos, how the very construction of the palace itself was red, venous, _pulsing_ with the life of the masses. Goro has seen his fair share of horrors, but even this sounds nauseating. He recounts their fruitless battle against the Holy Grail, how every attack did so little damage, and how, for the first time, Joker had felt truly hopeless. And then, when it had spit the Thieves out into the world… “Do you know what it’s like to be unmade?” Akira asks. “Every cell and atom slowly disintegrating, dissolving your core.” He’s looking at their hands and Goro is compelled to squeeze his tighter. “It’s not painful, per se, but it’s…” _Indescribable_ , he guesses, because Akira can’t even fill in the rest of his sentence.

But Akechi knows. Perhaps, better than anyone else outside of the Phantom Thieves, Akechi _knows_. He knows how it feels to be on the cusp of death, feeling the cold, the isolation, the fear. Even if there’s no pain, the fear itself causes agony. He can’t help but focus on the fact that his friends all… abandoned him, left him alone on Christmas eve, as if what they had just endured were meaningless. How did they cope with the knowledge they just fought a _god_? How could one return to normal after that? Apparently, it was too much for their leader, who was usually so well-composed. The dam on Akira Kurusu’s heart had broken, and while Goro Akechi was the last person one might expect to pick up the pieces, there he was.

“We’re just… high schoolers,” he finishes, and his voice shakes again. Akira tells him how insignificant it felt fighting against Yaldaboath, who was literally larger than life. He can recount every instance where he thought they were going to lose, where he thought about giving up, before someone’s healing spell rippled through the group and gave them just a little more fight. He tells him how it ended without any fanfare, just the Phantom Thieves in the middle of the sidewalk. He tells him what happened to Morgana.

He tells him that he’s alone.

It hits him that _Goro_ is the only person he has now; the last man on earth that should have the privilege of his company.

And for some reason, Goro assures, “You have me.” An impossible companionship. With Akira’s head still on his shoulder, he leans into him in return, resting his head on top of the other’s. He realizes how selfish he is to want this, to crave this closeness and this familiarity. 

Akira squeezes his hand. “I still don’t—” he chokes on his words again, “—I thought I was never going to see you again.” 

“I told you we would meet again.” 

He can feel Akira frown against his shoulder. “You were lying to me,” he argues, and oh, Goro wishes that he wasn’t known so well. 

He hums. “You really do see through all my pretenses, don’t you?” he asks, amused. “You’re right, I was lying to you. I had no intention of coming back, if only because… it was for your own good.” He gives Akira’s hand another squeeze. “For lack of a better phrase, I guess you could say I had a change of heart.” They both cringe over it, but it eases the tension between them. In truth, he could not get Akira’s little speech out of his mind. The passion with which he had retorted _You don’t get to decide what you're worth to me_ had harrowed him, and he found himself aching to know just what, exactly, that meant. He had already known he would have to leave the Velvet Room and go on his own, but it certainly helped that he was sort of... _kicked out_. For good reason, too, he supposes, if the whole place collapsed with the Metaverse.

And if he was fated to live, then surely Akira Kurusu had to be the reason.

If he could not find purpose in his justice, if there was no Metaverse for them to return to, then he would find a purpose in him.

“What happens now?”

He turns his head slightly, so his cheek is resting against Akira’s head. Honestly? He hasn’t thought that far and it terrifies him. He had always been so sure of his future, how he would curate it and perfect it. He was supposed to go to college, continue on with that Detective Prince façade. The thought revolts him now, like squeezing into clothes that don’t fit. Besides, a murderer wouldn’t get into university anyway, and the branding wasn’t something Goro could see himself avoiding. Eventually, the truth would surface, and he would have to pay for what he did. All the world was a stage, and for the first time in his life, Goro was going off script.

Instead of answering, Akechi muses, “Do you ever feel like the Metaverse was _easier_? That the decisions you made there felt like they had fewer consequences? That since it was merely cognition, it didn’t matter as much?” The wounds had always felt trivial, the ailments short-lasting and inconvenient, but breaking bones or, for fuck’s sake, getting shot in the gut never felt… _real_. There was always magic or tonics, something indescribable to fix it. “There was always a clear path, but now…”

“Yes, it did feel easier. It was an escape, of sorts, like running from your problems.”

“And now we don’t have the Metaverse to turn to. It’s harder, now.”

“…after the battle, when we returned, Sae found me.”

His eyes narrow. “Oh?”

“She wants me to turn myself in.”

His brows furrow. “Oh.”

“Tomorrow morning,” he says, and Akechi finds himself scowling.

“Well, that won’t do.” Was this why he was brought back? Was he supposed to _save_ him, again? _He had just got him back--_ “We could run away instead, if you’re interested.” 

Akira’s laugh is warm and… strangely affectionate. Goro knows he would never run away from his problems, and it was one of his character flaws, but both of them take a moment to fantasize. The two of them driving through the countryside, the windows of the car rolled down, their hands clasped somewhere between them. “Running away with the man who tried to kill me? How romantic.”

Goro scoffs. “I _succeeded_ in killing you; at least, a version of you.”

“You sound proud of that.”

His smile is sharp. "And you sound unconcerned with that." He knows, deep down, that the knowledge bothers him on some level, but Akira's inability to see someone as an irredeemable evil must soften that hurt. “Wouldn’t you be? You were proud of changing hearts, taking down the most untouchable criminals. I merely did the same.” They walk a thin tightrope, Goro knows, so he changes the subject. “Tomorrow is hours away. Let’s focus on tonight, hm? I know I’m probably the last person you’d want to spend it with—”

“That’s not true,” he interjected immediately. “I was—”

Goro’s not ready for any of that yet. He can only take so much softness at once, and he isn't sure what his heart would do if he heard Akira once again tell him how _important_ he is to him. “—Come here,” he says, cutting him off, guiding Akira into the space between his legs. He gives in easily—much too easily—and suddenly they sit, back to chest, Goro’s arms around his waist. He leans forward, resting his chin on Akira’s shoulder, and they just… sit like that, for a while. It’s comfortable and warm, and Goro can’t think of the last time he’s held someone. Physical touch is not something he’s allowed himself the pleasure of indulging in, but it seems to be one of Akira's. It's easier than finding words, at least, so he supposes it fits him just fine. 

Tomorrow, everything will change. The _right_ thing to do would be to turn himself into the police in Akira’s stead, but of course, that neither sounds ideal or pleasant. If he allows Akira to do it, though, he has nothing.

He finds resolve quickly and quietly, just like he did in the Velvet Room. It feels different, almost lackluster. There is no shimmer of flame to indicate the status of his heart, but he feels warm nonetheless. He told himself he would die for Akira Kurusu, over and over again, and… well, this was close, wasn’t it? But Akira deserved happiness, deserved to have his name cleared. If this was Goro’s chance to atone, he would don the villain once again, to keep him safe.

For tonight, though, he would allow himself just this; Akira in his arms, the snow falling outside, and the comfort of being wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics are from Iscariot by Walk the Moon!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this fic!  
> Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/mitochondribae) or [Tumblr](https://bvrnish.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
